Journey Part 7: Wading into the Border Bureaucracy

Our march continues, and within 50 meters, we arrive at a post of some sort. Two men sit at a table under a canopy. As we approach, my main guide demands my passport. I hesitate for a moment and then hand it over, breaking the cardinal rule of border crossing. In this situation, though, I figure that because the reputable Kelvin vouched for him, because he already rescued me from the initial swarm of hawkers -- and, frankly, because he and his friend already had all my possessions -- he was worthy of this added measure of trust.

My guide precedes me into the small open-air structure and hands my passport to one of the two men, who is speaking loudly on the phone. So far, so good. I try to present my immunization card, but I am told to put it away. That will come later. Without hanging up the phone, the man with my passport asks me a few questions (I spontaneously recall from high school that “avocat” means lawyer in French) and then he launches into a lecture, in French, apparently directed at the crowd of people who have taken an interest in my progress through Congolese bureaucracy. I am not sure of its purpose, but at its conclusion, the man asks me for “a little something.” Prepared for this step, I give him two dollars, and he seems satisfied.

The other man under the canopy, however, is still holding my passport. He gets up and leads me -- along with my guide, my guide’s assistant, and more than a dozen other hangers-on -- through a maze of kiosks, stands, and people, until we arrive at another building. I reacquire my tent and backpack as I enter. The official with my passport (or was he just some guy who brought a desk and canopy to the no-man’s land between Zambia and Congo?) leads me into the building, through an office, and into another office.

A man behind a desk greets me. Behind this man is an open window, through which I can see the faces of three or four members of my entourage. On the desk are a few forms, some odds and ends, and an old computer monitor. The man tells me to sit in one of the two chairs crammed in front of the desk. The man with my passport stands by the door, arms crossed.

Both men speak some English. I answer a series of questions about my destination, my profession, my country of origin, and other basic things. They examine my visa (obtained a month ago in the USA from the Congolese embassy). One says he needs a photocopy of my passport “for official records,” and asks for “a little something” to make a copy. I root through my bag and produce my own photocopy. He looks at it, considers for a moment, then says, “We need a copy of the visa stamp and your immunization records.” I realize he just wants a bribe. I produce one dollar. He scowls and says that such bills “do nothing in Congo,” but then he accepts the dollar and disappears with my passport and immunization records.

The other man asks who I am visiting in Congo. I tell him the name of a contact I have in the city. He asks for the phone number and then calls my contact. After a short conversation, the man hangs up. He looks chastened. The other man returns with my passport and immunization records and the two have a short conversation in French. Then, both men change their tune. They hand back my documents, tell me the prices of taxis to Lubumbashi; they summon an “officer” to escort me to the next office, and they wish me well and shake my hand. No requests for bribes, no red tape, no nothing. My contact must have some serious pull.

Feeling triumphant, I expect smooth sailing after this success. I walk back outside with visions of strolling alone with my new officer-guide for the remainder of the process, but my old guides quickly return, snatch back my bags, and bring me back to reality. Now,they are joined by a third, taller man, who grabs my arm and starts speaking to me as though he knows me. The five of us -- plus the usual band of additional followers -- proceed to the next stop.